


bite the bullet, feel the rush

by decadent



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rimming, harry's a bit obsessed with how good louis smells, laddy bro pal things, louis schemes, there's showers and there's sex, they see each other naked accidentally more than it'd be alright, uni au.....sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decadent/pseuds/decadent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is still behind him, insistently teetering from one foot to another, breathing against his neck in short, warm puffs and he feels so nice and sleep warm, smells so good, like the laundry detergent they use, like the Acqua di Gio he wears, like the coconut shower gel he probably steals from Harry, because Harry’s sure it’s his own and he’s even more certain that Louis doesn’t have his own bottle of the same thing, and Harry feels pure want tugging somewhere behind his ribcage, inside his tummy and it’s horribly unfair, he thinks.</p><p>Or, the one where Harry can't stop wanting Louis, they see each other naked a few times too many and showers are a magical thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bite the bullet, feel the rush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [underpressure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/underpressure/gifts).



> the story that shouldn't have been, basically. 
> 
> thank you for the lovely prompts, darling underpressure, as they were all brilliant and quite hard for me to choose from. after developing a storyline out of almost each one of them, deciding back and forth about a thousand times and how i explicitly said in my offers that i don't want to write an uni au, i finally decided that in life, you must do things you're not comfortable doing for the sake of DEVELOPMENT, so here we are with an uni au. although there isn't much uni in it, is there........ *sly face emoji*
> 
> my biggest kisses go to [beth](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com) who's helped me an insane amount to get this story somewhere. that, and she's a darling. my best best girl. 
> 
> story title from thomston - burning out.

The first time Harry meets Louis, a rucksack heaved over his shoulder and a duffle dangling from his fingers, standing on the doorstep of a ratty little flat buried deep in the streets of Elephant and Castle, he isn’t quite sure what to think of the pile of dirty socks and an empty beer bottle right there on the carpet or whether the snarky little bloke with eyes too blue and sneer too condescending and self-assured is the right person to share a home with.

With a phone number and an address in Liam’s scrawny letters in his hand and a recommendation to go, Liam advised giving Louis a ring after finding out about Harry’s plan of getting out of Cheshire and attending university in London. A GCE in hand and his first broken heart to top it off had been the perfect reasoning for a one-way train ticket out of Holmes Chapel to anywhere but.

“Give him a call,” he’d said, “super decent bloke. A bit of a handful at times, but a good lad, you’d get along well. The neighbourhood’s a bit sketchy for your posh Cheshire arse, but the house is renovated and he’s had a free room since his mate moved back to Doncaster.”

Overgrown human puppy named Liam with dark raisin eyes and a heart of gold is someone to trust, Harry’s found out over the years spanning their friendship.

That sleepy soft, raspy and slow voice on the other side on the phone when he called, however, sounded like it belonged to someone entirely else.

He’d sounded like a relatively friendly pixie-boy-thing. In reality, he’s not.

The real Louis, however, he’s a little too loud, a little too brash, a little too all over the place with the way he keeps dragging Harry from one room to another without giving Harry even a breather, a pause to shove his things in the nearest corner for a comfortable peeking around the house. He’s everything else and a bit more that Harry particularly isn’t and Harry can’t decide if kicking a football around the house is a little endearing or incredibly annoying and a bit destructive.

“Bi-weekly compulsory footie nights, cheapest ale on sale in Tesco’s on me. Heat and water bill goes to sharing, I hope you aren’t one of them types who spends a lifetime in the shower, yeah? Me landlord’s quite decent, but a bit sloppy with choosing tenants, so he let me bring someone in meself. Some other bloke in his other house was escorted out by the police for drug trafficking, but he still can’t be arsed for proper background checks, so whatever. Rent goes to him, he’ll get you the paperwork as soon as you’re settled in.”

Harry blinks slowly. He prefers a dry Chardonnay to any sort of beer, but doesn’t think it’s his place to say anything just yet. He can also cut down his showering times for the wellbeing of his future self.

“Bring back whomever and whenever you want, just have your chicks keep their kit on. Had a mate slap me right in the balls for when her girl was sneaking around topless, didn’t even give a rat’s arse about her tits, so we’ll avoid that. You in? Want the keys?”

Harry doesn’t give a rat’s arse about any girl tits either, but he figures it’s neither the moment nor the place for that revelation.

He’s still teetering between agreeing or fleeing, but now that Louis seems less hostile and standing there in a thin tee, hair sticking up and eyes twinkling, much warmer and friendlier than the version that opened the door half an hour ago, patiently waiting for Harry to make up his mind as he sips on his tea. Harry sort of realizes he doesn’t want to say no, so he says yes.

Of course he says yes.

 

They manage well enough, they have their morning classes and lunch classes and evening classes, seminars between the classes and endless amounts of coursework, topped off with some more coursework and various assignments and Harry’s quite pleased that Louis is too short on time to kick footie around in the house, spending his time mostly buried in books and wailing over the sheer volume of his assignments.

After Louis finally stops giving Harry grief over his love for spinach and stops teasing Harry over how he fusses over his blender more than Louis’ own mum fusses over himself and Harry has less of a reason to give him a grumpy side-eye, Harry starts staying up with him late, going over Louis’ review notes and helping him colour-coordinate his revision cards, because when Louis is not being stroppy or pratty, Harry finds him relatively lovely.

Harry also finds him incredibly attractive, even though he’s sort of drawn the invisible self-cockblock line right from the moment Louis granted him his own pair of keys, because  _roommates,_ mates, not roomfuckingbuddies, but he’s nice and curvy, a good compact height to fit right under Harry’s chin and a nice set of strong calves that would look proper amazing wrapped around Harry’s -- no. Nope.

Harry, however, is quite sure that Louis’ already figured out that Harry has his little own moments of weakness where he gives Louis his come-hither eyes or pretends that he’s pointedly not staring at Louis’ arse, because there’s only a limit to the naked skin a person can show by accident while being bundled up in joggers and sweatshirts most of the time. He’s like a human burrito, mostly, made out of warm cotton layers and topped with sparkling eyes like sapphires.

“This is the bloody worst,” Louis slams down his cup of tea. A droplet splashes over the edge, landing onto the paper next to it, smack straight onto the olfactory bulb, “I’m doing developmental. Children. Development. If I wanted any of this shit brain stuff, I’d have done neuro or summat, this is bullshit. Never going to get this into me daft head.”

“Hey,” Harry wipes the paper with the sleeve of his burgundy knit, “I like your head. It’s not daft, it’s a perfectly fine head. It’s also not an easy subject, so it’s going to kick your arse a little, but it’s nothing impossible. Wanna go over the blue cards again?”

“No,” grumbles Louis.

Harry sighs. Louis is small, petulant and grumpier than he’s ever seen him before. It’s heart-wrenchingly precious.

“Is this the sort of no where I have to ask again and then you’ll say yes?”

It takes Louis a few very long moments. “Yes,” he finally mumbles.

“Blue cards?”

Louis presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubs them until there are only psychedelic colours dancing behind his eyelids and rakes through his own hair. He ends up looking like a bleary owl baby and Harry frowns as Louis tugs at the skin of his forearms.

“Yes, please,” he grunts out, “feel like a failure, ‘s all. A hungry failure.”

Harry gets up, shuffles to the kitchen and returns a second later with a banana. He doesn’t mean for it to hit Louis square in the face as he tosses it towards his general direction, but it just so manages to do it anyway. He blames it on the flight trajectory. Louis looks relatively disgruntled and Harry catches himself wishing that his usual enthusiasm towards phallic objects in the vicinity of his face is at least a bit more higher.

Harry’s phallic object, maybe. One day, hopefully.

“Why you givin’ me your food?” Louis mumbles through a mouthful of fruit. Louis is sleepy, he can see, a frown painted upon his face as he keeps on flipping through his notes, lethargic and a bit more rough around the edges than Harry’s used to seeing him.

Over the few months, Harry’s seen many sides of Louis, and finds it enticing how he adjusts to every person and every situation at the snap of his finger, never losing his cool, one hundred per cent calm and collected at all times. He holds a certain kind of poise with strangers, never even shows more emotion towards the mailman than absolutely necessary, lets a bit loose around their mutual friends – restricted to mostly Liam and Niall, a brash and fun Irish bloke Harry has a few introductory classes with – and even though he’s always composed, in the confines of their home he lets at least half of those walls down and lets himself be as difficult as he genuinely wants to be.

“Loads more healthier energy in fruit than in those cheap Red Bull knockoffs you keep on drinking,” Harry says, “next thing you know you’ve got cardiac problems at twenty five.”

“Ooh, we’ve got a proper doctor in the household now,” Louis laughs and throws the banana peel back at Harry. He doesn’t hit him in the face, which leaves him only mildly disappointed, but he does manage to get a gross stringy bit right in his curls.

Half a win is still a win. Harry lets his snide comment slide, but only because he likes Louis’ face more than he probably should.

 

Louis, of course, much to no one’s surprise, passes all of his exams.

It’s not exactly with flying colours, but he figures a few D’s, an E and a C thrown into the mix are a much better result than failing them all, so he’s content enough and that, of course, calls for a celebration with Liam. Arriving home from uni at four in the afternoon, pissed on WKD Blues they’d had in the park and Stolichnaya shots Niall had treated them to in the dingy bar he works at, Harry’s surprised to say the least. He’s even more bemused when Louis slinks his way into his room where Harry’s spread out on his duvet, limbs long, loose and inviting, takes a long stride towards his bed and plants a kiss straight on Harry’s mouth.

Harry tries to calm his breathing, it’s all good and he’s not panicking. Only, he is, because he’s got Louis in his bedroom,  _on his bed_ , with his dry, warm pair of lips pressed against Harry’s and Harry doesn’t bloody know what to do.

Thing is, he doesn’t have many options either, because as soon as Louis landed on his bed, he’s also gone and Harry feels like all of his intelligence and brain matter has been rendered zero just from Louis pouncing on him. He’s used to being better than this, but apparently he’s not.

And it’s a bit frightening, really, when Harry thinks what Louis’ slick tongue would feel like, if he’d be the person to cup someone’s face in the warmth of his palms or he’d be the type to press himself against the person he’s kissing, all warm, needy and lovely.

“Brilliant, mate, passed ‘em all. Couldn’t have done it without you, really. All of this bloody revision and those colour cards did it, I suppose. Niall’s coming by later when he’s done at work, said he’d nick a bottle of wine as well. You in?”

“Sure,” Harry rasps out, “yeah. Sure. Why not.”

“You alright?”

“Um, yeah,” Harry drops his pen on the bed and pretends not to notice how Louis’ eyes are twinkling much brighter than usual, how his cheeks are tinged a light pink and his forehead even  _looks_  warm. How his hair is all rucked up and shirt a little wrinkled, like he’d been rolling around in the warm spring sun for the longest time and lost count over how many bottles of alcopops he’s already gone through and Harry finds himself wishing he were kissed by Louis who’s maybe just woken up, sleepy soft and stone cold sober. “Gonna take a shower first, though, alright?”

He slinks into the bathroom, cheeks burning up and tinged a rosy pink, and ignores his heart thumping inside the cavity of his chest. He prays to God that the flimsy bathroom lock is not going to betray him, seeing as what’s holding the door locked is just a pair of screws with rusty heads and a whole load of sheer willpower, slips out of his gray trackies and tee, lets the water beat down his back as he wanks off, one arm on the wall with his forehead pressed against it and the other working hard and fast over his rock-hard cock, under the pretence of deep-conditioning his hair, and later on pretends that the tepid water is enough to wash away the guilt pooling in the pit of his belly.

 

Harry’s not quite sure if it’s a figment of his imagination, but Louis either likes clothes as little as Harry himself, or there is a reason why Louis keeps forgetting  (or “forgetting”) to put on his joggers or why he’s taken a liking to bundling himself up in front of the telly sans shirt.

He’s not particularly fussed, however, because Louis’ skin is the colour of molten caramel, glistens a bit golden when he’s lying in the sun like a tired kitten, curled up and content, and he’s a lovely combination of soft and defined and Harry’s been finding himself fixated on the light dusting of hair that leads from his navel down into his trousers more than just once.

He knows, though, that his initial idea of keeping things light and simple and roommates has been long gone from the precise moment he realized he likes Louis more than he’d like any other new friend of his.  

It’s been a while since he’s met someone relatively interesting and genuinely nice, someone whose sincere distaste towards steamed vegetables is more endearing than not. Someone who makes it his constant mission to prove everyone that surviving solely on tea is a perfectly fine thing to try and do.

That, and all the other little things Louis does that capture Harry’s attention on a daily basis and make him realize that it’s probably not just A Tiny Crush anymore, but more like Arse Over Teakettle In Like and it’s getting to be a bit of a problem.

There are nights when Harry feels cold and alone in his bed and knows Louis would be proper good at cuddling, judging from the way he wraps himself around the sofa pillow and clings to it in his sleep. Thing is, he knows he should not, but that’s not going to stop him from wanting.

 

The spring break does them both well: it’s a good, hard-earned pause from having their noses buried in books at all times. They party and go out much less than Louis had initially planned for them to, which in reality means that they actually don’t, unless it’s hanging out at Niall’s work and eating their way through most of the free peanuts they have to offer, dousing them down with the cheapest beer they have on draught. They spend most of their days sleeping in late, curled up like sleepy puppies in their respective beds and snoozing until it’s half one at least, stumble into the kitchen blearily and whoever’s first makes the tea.

They eat sandwiches in front of the telly, Louis always pours far too much barbecue sauce on his and makes far too many faces when Harry prepares spinach pesto to put on top of his ciabatta. Louis is a regular toast man, he is. There’s always some shite daytime soap operas playing on the telly for hours before they can be arsed to put on a movie or flick on the Playstation, because Louis wasn’t joking when he said he loves his Fifa more than he loves doing pretty much anything else and that includes stuffing his face with cheese toasties.

“You’re awful at this, Harry,” Louis sighs as he presses onto his controller, fingers flying over the right buttons at right times. “You have even less co-ordination in this game than you do in real life, didn’t think ‘t were possible. Like baby Bambi.”

“Rude. Bambi’s a baby anyway, no need to point that out.” Harry grumbles, pressing frantically on the buttons of his controller. “This tiny man on the screen won’t stop running, what do I do?”

Louis sighs, loud and dramatic, as he presses a button on Harry’s controller. “Should stick to playing chess with you or summat.”

Harry’s eyes lighten up and Louis thinks he looks a bit like Christmas, his birthdays and all bank holidays came together on the same day. “I’m brilliant in chess,” he exclaims.

It takes another long, dramatic sigh. “Of course you are, Styles. Of course you are. Do you like golf, too?”

“I do! Mum and me used to go sometimes, it’s very lovely. Good exercise, loads of fresh air and greenery. Helps you sort your head out.”

“You are an actual grandmother, Harry. Chess, golf? Don’t think I ‘aven’t seen how you help the lady next door with them flowers.”

“Geraniums.”

Louis lets out a shrill laugh and throws his head back in laughter. Harry makes a mental note of how Louis looks like an actual angel when he’s laughing, albeit a tiny and bratty one, but still relatively heavenly.

It’s exquisite, really, the way Louis makes him feel warm and fluttery inside, the way he feels after a big mug of hot chocolate on a cold December day, even when he’s not really doing anything – or trying to accomplish anything, because Harry’s more than certain he’s being the one bloody hopelessly in love and brooding.

Later on, however, Louis brings in all of his blankets and they settle themselves into a snug blanket fort in front of the telly, Louis laying half of his body weight on Harry’s front, nestling himself deep into the blankets and Harry’s sweater. Harry pointedly ignores how Louis smells  _so. good._ and he’s pointedly trying to not be a creep with the way he really wants to sniff in further, because Louis is everything he’s ever wanted to smell in a man.

“Pet me,” Louis whispers quietly as he flips through the DVD front menu.

“You’re not a baby animal, Louis,” Harry whispers back, equally as quiet, secretly ultimately pleased with the way Louis is all wrapped into his side, snug as a bug inside of his blankets, less squirmy than his daily average and he looks half-sedated and very content. He wraps an arm around Louis’ side, pulls him in tighter, and hopes he’s as inconspicuous as he thinks he is.

“Pet me,” Louis whispers again, nuzzling his nose into Harry’s side. He’s like a puppy, Harry thinks. A little labradoodle begging for kisses and belly rubs.

He does, of course. Slides his fingers up into Louis’ hair and scratches at his scalp, ignores how the half-moans half-purrs he keeps on making all go basically straight into his dick and prays to God that Louis doesn’t notice, because they’re having an ultimately laddy bro pal Wednesday night cuddle and a semi would be relatively uncomfortable to explain. He rubs at Louis' neck, his arms, his sides and when Louis falls asleep fifteen minutes into the movie, Harry can’t say he minds.

 

“Mate, this is not sunny side up.”

Louis is hovering over Harry, chin almost on his shoulder, nose pressing against the wisp of curls that have escaped from the bun Harry’s scraped his hair up into, pressed against his back. He’s  _hovering_  and it is majorly distracting for Harry, which is as good explanation as any other as to why he’s lost his immaculate skill of preparing eggs the way they’re  _demanded_  from him and the pan is filled with mushy bits of scrambled eggs.

It’s a fight lost much before it even started.

“Um,” he rasps, “yeah. ‘s not, innit.”

“You all right? You look like you’ve been whacked on the head. Do you need tea, is that it? You’re on tea duty, but I could fix you a cup.”

Louis is still behind him, insistently teetering from one foot to another, breathing against his neck in short, warm puffs and he feels so nice and sleep warm, smells so good, like the laundry detergent they use, like the Acqua di Gio he wears, like the coconut shower gel he probably steals from Harry, because Harry’s sure it’s his own and he’s even more certain that Louis doesn’t have his own bottle of the same thing, and Harry feels pure  _want_  tugging somewhere behind his ribcage, inside his tummy and it’s horribly unfair, he thinks.

It’s unfair that Louis is playing on his heartstrings like a bloody cellist and it’s taken him shamefully little time to have Harry wrapped around his teeny little finger, no intent of letting go, and the worst of all, Louis has no bloody clue. Zero idea of how much Harry just wants to slip into Louis’ bed and snog him until he’s soft and pliant, pinned underneath Harry with sweat slicking their skin, how Harry wants to plant tiny kisses on his droopy eyelids and wake up with Louis’ nose buried in his neck every morning.

That’s not what he gets, though.

What he gets is Louis off his back, making some sort of a comment of having to change his clothes for the day and then – of course – he ends up being smacked right on his arse with the shirt Louis just took off.

Should’ve been expecting that, even.

Firstly, his skin looks so warm and so inviting, joggers much too low on his narrow hips, topped with his sleep-fluffy hair and bleary eyes, Harry has to physically restrain himself from flinging the spatula into the unknown and pushing Louis against the first horizontal surface he can find. He’s cute and Harry approves of cute. It’s a bit unnerving, those random bouts of frustration Louis keeps giving him.

Secondly, the look Louis is giving Harry is way too smouldering for eggs and tea at nine in the morning on a dreary Monday, so Harry just.Just looks away. Pretends he’s still faffing about with the breakfast and that Louis isn’t trying to – Harry has no idea what he’s trying to, really.

It’s the way Louis is looking at him like he’s the predator and Harry’s the lure, it’s how Harry’s always been more than convinced it’s just him wanting to get into Louis’ tiny pants, that it’s barely going to be reciprocated and Louis  _can’t_  want him back, because why would he. It’s Louis with his eyes too dark and intense, it’s the way he holds himself, muscles flexed the tiniest bit with his head up high and back held straight, strong and sexy and assertive and Harry wants to choke on his own tongue and/or saliva.

It’s a huge mess, is what it really is.

 

Thing is, the bathroom lock blows. It’s what Louis told him the day he moved in, it’s what he whines about on a constant weekly basis, it’s what they both know.

The lock is flimsy and sort of a cunt for an inanimate object and it’s something they’ve adjusted to as much as possible, but sometimes – sometimes things just happen and locks break even further and sometimes your fit roommate walks in on you stripping out of your clothes before shower.

Harry can swear he locked the door and he can swear on his mum's life it wasn’t a squeal, but a very manly grunt of surprise he let out when Louis barged in. It’s just a bum, a relatively nice one if Harry's allowed to say so himself, small, but still plush and well-rounded, and Harry’s sure Louis has seen his fair share of those in his life before, although that’s not an idea he exactly loves entertaining. He’d much rather have Louis staring at his bum, preferably for the rest of eternity, but judging from the way Louis' frozen to the spot like a marble statue, suspended in the moment and blue eyes glistening in the soft glow of the bathroom, it seems that he doesn't mind doing the staring either. 

“Er,” Louis squeaks, eyes wide as saucers and cheeks tinged a light raspberry pink.

He’s much less composed than Harry’s used to seeing him, which is an interesting change, and he looks about a thousand sorts of apologetic and uncomfortable and in any other situation, Harry would enjoy it to its fullest, would love to watch him squirm and flush under his own embarrassment, but with his arse half out from slipping out of his pants, fingers still tucked under the elastic edges digging into his skin, he figures he wouldn’t mind an end to it. “I’m just- I’m just leaving, yeah? Have a good shower. Enjoy it. Scrub ‘em little toes clean as well, yeah?”

 _What. The. Fuck._  is nearly the only thing on Harry’s mind as he steps under the warm stream of water.

He doesn’t jerk off, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t do it  _again_  with the images of Louis behind his eyelids, the way he looked that one morning in the kitchen, the way he looks like every damn day. Soft and scruffy and sharp in all the right places, on all the right edges.

He doesn’t imagine Louis right there in the shower with him, pressed up against the cool tiles with soap slicking up his smooth chest, soft tummy, thick thighs. He doesn’t think about how Louis would look so good taking his cock, doesn’t think about how good he’d look with Harry pulling them off together in his large palm at the same time, doesn’t think how pliant Louis would get if Harry would slip him some tongue and have Louis suck at it a little, all breathy and needy, doesn’t think about how good it would feel to have Louis press his sharp little teeth into Harry’s shoulder as he’s coming with a high-pitched whine.

He doesn’t. Which means, he definitely does.

 

Even though the weather’s been warming up, the sun is shining more often than not and the temperature is surprisingly mild for an English spring, Louis has somehow managed to fall ill. He has a stuffy nose, a stuffy head, a burning throat and his whole body aching at all times of the day. Harry’s being a proper gentleman about it, bringing him tea and making chicken noodle soup, topping it off with too much ginger much to Louis’ dismay. Since he’s too poorly to kick up a fuss about it and protest about the ginger situation, he mostly just keeps quiet and snuffles his soup down.

Everything tastes like snot anyway.

It’s nearing eleven when Harry decides to bring Louis another cup of tea, to maybe rid him of the congestion a little and help him sleep better, because as much as Louis has been talking while he’s ill (it’s not much. It’s not even ten per cent of how much Louis usually loves to talk), he’s been complaining over a lack of sleep caused by oxygen deprivation, which Louis himself deems as “criminal”. It’s peppermint with some chamomile, handpicked from Harry’s mum’s garden back in Cheshire, infused with the tiniest bit of dried lavender as a sleeping aid and Harry thinks Louis would be proud if he knew how much honey he stirred in just to have Louis actually  _like_  it, not tolerate it barely enough to garble it down within a minute.

He patters down the hallway, socks shuffling against the cold floorboards, and pushes his fingers through the crack in Louis’ door to slide it open and—

_Holy. Shit._

It’s not that he particularly enjoys Louis being ill – he’s feeling poorly not just most, but all of the time, his whining has kicked up a good notch when he’s feeling well enough to actually complain and that does speak volumes, the fact that Louis is too ill to even grumble about it. Louis mostly looks like a kicked puppy, eyes bleary and bloodshot, hair mussed up in a way which is definitely not artful, not even soft-looking, and he’s just so _down_  in his spirits that Harry doesn’t even know what to do or how to cheer him up at least the littlest bit.

He doesn’t even want to play Fifa with Harry, even when Harry promises to let him kick his arse straight to the curb (which Louis would anyway).

But. But Louis is sprawled out on his bed like a little starfish, quilt kicked off onto the floor, one arm thrown over his eyes and he’s naked save for a pair of little white briefs that are obscenely tight on him and he’s hard.  _Hard._

That, and the fact that Louis’ body is covered with a thin layer of sweat which gives Harry enough reason to believe he’s finally kicked up a fever, sort of violates all of Harry’s senses right there on the spot. Even with Louis sick and looking a bit ghastly, a bit paler than his usual golden self, he still looks divine and Harry really needs to stop seeing Louis naked.

He also really didn’t need to know how big Louis is when he’s very hard, because he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get that out of his head. He also really didn’t have to have this happen to him while Louis is sick as fuck, because that just makes him feel like a shit person, ogling after someone who can barely breathe through their nose.

Harry sets the cup carefully on the nightstand, covers Louis’ body with the thin beige woollen throw Louis has flung on his table beforehand and escapes the room. If he doesn’t get the idea of Louis naked, sweaty and sprawled out underneath him, pressed into the mattress between Harry’s legs out of his head, no one has to know.

 

The first time they have someone over that's not one of their mutual friends — Liam or Niall — is when Louis brings home a bloke called Nick. Apparently they "go way back" and "have loads of catching up to do".  Nick has a stupidly high quiff, a stupidly wide smile and stupidly big feet, which draws Harry to only one certain conclusion. He tries not to be too jealous, because he's personally got quite big feet as well, if that's what Louis is looking for in a man. 

Nick is also stupidly good looking, tells jokes that make Louis laugh too hard, hard enough he's doubling over and clutching at his tummy with tears of mirth in his eyes. Louis looks stupidly good next to him, because Nick is tall and fit and Louis is really tiny and very compact in comparison, so of course he looks ridiculously good under Nick's arm, which just so happens to be draped over his shoulders.

Harry takes his half a bottle of Riesling from the refrigerator, doesn't even bother with a glass because he's not a lady and he doesn't need one, makes quite the entrance and a hasty exit through the living room and if it makes him look a bit petty and a bit jealous, after having some wine in his room, alone and absolutely not sad at all, he doesn't particularly care.

He can admit to being more childish than acceptable, but this Nick bloke is shitting on his mood and he figures he can be as big of a child as he wants. 

 

If there is one thing that Harry believes about life, is that things go the way they’re supposed to go. He doesn’t exactly believe in fate, per se, but he does tend to think that some things are supposed to happen regardless of… anything, basically, and some things don’t and that’s just the way life does its things.

It is what it is, Harry thinks, and it’s what you make of the cards you’ve been dealt.

However, life does have a way of sneaking in naughty little surprises and sneaking in little hooks that throw you off kilter and have you questioning everything about everything you’ve ever known.Harry has that sort of a question, the  _what the actual bloody fucking fuck shit_  sorts, when he walks into the bathroom, again, and the door lock is being a bitch, again, and he finds a naked Louis, again.

Thing is, Harry’s smart, if he does say so himself. He can be a bit slow at times, but he’s quite sharp, quite witty, he prides himself in snarky humour and quick comebacks, loves reading and writing for the sake of broadening his mind and keeping him up-to-date at all times, but of course, as any human, he has his Achilleus’ heel.

It appears so that his is apparently Louis.

Naked Louis. And as he finds out, naked  _soapy_  Louis is what renders him completely speechless and it takes him a moment to realize he’s even forgotten to breathe for the last thirty seconds, because he’s standing there in the doorway, staring at Louis with water cascading down his back, hair wet and in his eyes in a much hotter way than it probably should be, thick rivulets of soap running down his back, bum and the backs of his meaty thighs and like that is not nearly enough, Louis has his eyes half-lidded as he’s running a hand over his crotch.

Harry can see the dark patch of hair on his pubic bone, imagines where and what it leads to, and tries his hardest not to salivate.

“I’m— Oh, God, sorry, ‘m—sorry, you know, the lock, um, sorry—“ Harry rambles on. His face is a beetroot red and he’s never, ever been this embarrassed in his life.

His thirst for Louis is unreal indeed and he’s such a marvellous little thing to look at that Harry wouldn’t mind just sitting, staring and admiring him for days, shirtless or bundled up, doesn’t even bloody matter. However, he feels like such a bloody idiot for ramming into the bathroom and interrupting someone’s privacy, someone’s  _shower_ , because they had agreed both right before Harry moved in that showers were one of the Sacred Things in Life and they’d bonded first over their mutual love for showers while sharing a beer.

“Harry,” Louis grits out.

“’m just going to—I’m sorry, Louis, really, just get back to y—sorry,” he rambles on, fingers shaking as he’s rooted to the same spot. He knows he has to leave but he’s unable to move, because who wouldn’t be, really?

“Harry!” Louis’ voice is sharp and heavy and a little bit pained. Harry can see that he’s taken a full hold over his cock, small fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, stroking slowly and surely. Harry can also see he’s obviously making himself feel good. _Very_  good. “Get your kit off and get in the bloody shower.”

“What?”

“I said,” Louis resumes his stroking, leans his back against the wall and bites into his lip. He’s obviously holding back, Harry can see, with the way his muscles are tensing up in his tummy, he’s nibbling on his bottom lip and he has the sort of look in his eyes Harry’s never seen before and it’s so hot, because some part of Harry’s brain calculates out that Louis might like to be held back a little, which is a whole another thought of it’s own and Harry can’t help the way his own dick perks up and reaches full hardness in a lesser time which would be socially acceptable.

Bloody Louis. The way he's panting and breathless, grinding his teeth together serves him right. 

“I said, get your fucking kit off and get in the bloody fucking shower some time in this bloody century, Harry.”

Which, okay. Harry can do that.

He definitely can and he definitely does not trip over his own feet as he’s trying to shimmy out of his joggers and tee, flicks his pants off somewhere and they probably land in the hallway before Harry pulls the bathroom door shut and Louis grabs him much harder than necessary. Harry doesn’t exactly need to be  _forced_  into the shower, he’s quite willing to come (in more ways than just one) and Louis latches onto Harry’s shoulders, nails digging into the skin sharply, and pulls him in for a kiss.

It’s a kiss long overdue, if Harry thinks so, considering the amount of sexual tension they’ve had between them for weeks, considering how much Harry’s been wanting to kiss him from the very first day they met, considering how much he’s been imagining kissing Louis, considering _Louis_.

His mouth is soft and slick, warm and a bit sweet and he’s a proper lovely kisser: Louis is pliant, deep and needy and makes no effort to stop Harry from slipping his tongue in and pressing Louis harder against the shower wall, his knees buckle just the tiniest bit as Harry slides one of his hands behind Louis’ head and presses the other against his cheek, cradling his head. 

“Been trying to get you for weeks,” Louis murmurs against Harry’s lips as they pull apart for a moment to breathe, “walked around shirtless for a reason, you knob. Did all of it to get you here. Invited Nick over to make you jealous."

“Is that so?” Harry presses himself tighter against Louis, slips a thigh between Louis’ legs and feels a pang of satisfaction all over him as he feels Louis respond, rock back a little onto him. It’s also a bit unbelievable, the fact that Louis has been actually bloody planning to nail Harry, while all he could have done was asked and Harry would have taken his trousers off for Louis without a second thought.

“Yeah, had me shirt off just for you. Left the bedroom door open just so you could peek in, knew you would. Picked the bathroom lock for a reason. Got sort of disappointed when you didn't kiss me back, though, could have given me some tongue just to be polite," Louis grinds into Harry’s thigh. Everything is soapy and warm and wonderful and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on before, partly because he’s never had his lap full of Louis in the tepid shower before.

“You bloody picked the lock? Told me the lock was broken on the very first day.”

Louis shrugs. It’s as nonchalant as it can be in this situation.

“’m a quick thinker. Knew from the first moment I saw you.”

“You’re a complete tit, Louis,” Harry kisses him again and it’s even hotter, even better than before because Louis is getting a little desperate against Harry, trying to compose himself while subconsciously rocking into Harry a little, making tiny little movements with his hips that leave him breathless and wanting for more. He’s squirmy, so restless and Harry absolutely bloody loves it. It gets him even harder and Harry didn’t really think it was possible with the way his dick is straining against Louis', full and solid.

He grabs both of their dicks in his palm and it’s unreal, really, because Harry had been imagining the very fucking exact same thing weeks ago when Louis had barged into the bathroom and it’s unbelievable, because apparently Louis had been playing him for the longest time and the moment is now, it’s  _here_  and Harry finally does have Louis pinned down underneath him, he finally has his hand on Louis’ cock and he’s so close to making Louis finally come, judging from the look on his face. Louis has his eyes squeezed shut, breath coming out in sharp little puffs, he hasn’t stopped rocking against Harry for not even the briefest of moment and he’s clutching onto Harry for dear life, sharp little fingernails digging into his shoulder and it doesn’t even hurt.

“Gonna come for me, pet? Cream all over yourself? Bet you’d been planning that all along as well, like yourself some games, don’t you? Could've told me before, we could've been shagging for weeks.”

Louis offers a high whine as an answer. Harry can do with that.

It doesn’t take long for either of them to finish – it’s embarrassing, even. Louis comes first, shaking like a leaf on Harry’s thigh, moaning in a way that sends Harry teetering off the edge right after him and Harry comes all over his hand, their cocks, adding onto the mess Louis had already made. The water is still falling hot over them, washing off the come off his hands and if it hadn’t been for the shower, it’s likely Harry would have thoroughly enjoyed watching Louis lick come off his fingers, which would have been his incredibly polite and reasonable request to make up for the sneaky scheming and planning Louis had apparently been doing.

Picking the bathroom lock just to hope Harry would waltz inside at some point, betting on his absent-mindedness. How rude.

Harry kisses him some more, slips his tongue into Louis’ mouth, which Louis sucks on happily. Louis seems satisfied as he’s gone all lovely and pliant in Harry’s hands, doesn’t even flinch when Harry trails a finger down his bum and rubs over his hole.

What he wouldn’t do to get his mouth on Louis, he thinks as he feels the tiny pucker beneath his fingertip. He’s tight and his bum feels so good underneath his hand and Harry doesn’t give it even a second thought when he turns Louis around gently, sets his arms in front of him on the wall for support and guides Louis to rest his own head between them. Harry crouches down behind him, ignores how Louis is breathing so heavy he's practically wheezing, and spreads him open.

He's so lovely, just as nice as Harry thought he'd be, pink and tight, clean shaven and smooth as velvet, and Harry can’t wait to put his mouth on him. Get his tongue on his arse, lick his way inside, get him on the edge and keep him there until Louis has zero to no recollection of his own name. Payback might be a horrible cunt, but Harry’s got a tiny mean bone in his body and it’s quite Louis’ own fault, really. Should’ve been less of a little scheming weasel, then.

"Are we in the rimming part of our relationship already?"

"If you think for a moment I haven't been daydreaming about getting my tongue in this arse as soon as possible, you're much dumber than you look."

Harry smirks at the giggle Louis breathes out and admires how he gets closer to the wall, letting his body lax against it. Louis’ forehead is pressed into his left arm and he has the front of his teeth sunk into his forearm and if he’s going to keep himself back, keep his whines and moans to himself, Harry’s going to have a serious talk with him later on. The first lick has Louis pushing back into Harry's face, the second one has him shying away. Harry reaches a hand forward and brings it onto Louis' crotch, pulling him in. He’s so hard, so wet and soapy and slippery and Harry minds himself a little grope over Louis’ cock. "C'mere, baby, sit back a little on my face." 

"Oh, God," Louis whimpers, pretty and breathy, and leans back the tiniest bit, feels Harry kiss and rub over his bum. He’s got clever fingers rubbing into his bumcheeks, over the pucker of his hole and it’s incredible, really. Louis can't see Harry, can't anticipate his next move, can't expect the way he licks over him, fat and wet and he'd be embarrassed for the sound he makes if he weren't feeling half as good as he is. 

Harry works over him intense and well, eats him like a starved man and once he's got Louis nice loose and wet, good spit going on with his bum almost dripping, not just from the water that's still beating down their backs, he slides a single finger in and fingers him in time with the slow, languid and deep movements of his tongue in his arse.

Louis is saying something — muttering, babbling under his breath, but Harry's past the point of caring. "Going to come for me again, darling?" 

It sounds like a question, but the both of them know it really, really isn't. Louis is going to come for Harry no matter what. 

Louis grunts and tries to sneak his hand to his dick, but Harry swats his hand away before he can even get to it. "No touching," Harry hisses, "I'm making you come, not you."

"I'll suck your brain out through your dick if you let me come right now," Louis slurs. He's panting, wheezing like he's just run a marathon, but he's really only getting the proper Styles Treatment and he'd better enjoy it and keep his paws to himself. 

Harry doubles his efforts, licks harder and broader, slips his finger out to grip onto Louis' cock and keeps everything wet and loose and just shy of perfect enough for Louis to come for the second time in just fifteen minutes. Harry finds his cock admirable. He also finds the sounds Louis' making even more admirable, high-pitched and whiny and when he finally comes, it's with a groan that will keep Harry hard in his memories for the rest of his life. 

Harry catches Louis by his hips as he slumps against the wall, breathing heavy and uneven. He's so warm, so pleased, pliant and like putty beneath Harry's fingertips. Harry switches off the shower and helps Louis step out, bundles him up in a large towel and helps him dry off. He wraps a towel around himself and lets Louis loll his head against his shoulder. Harry presses a kiss on top of his head and brings Louis in a tight hug, his cheek pressed against his wet hair. Louis is so warm, so lovely, so sated. 

Harry's so happy he can't even begin to describe it. He's made the loveliest mess out of Louis, the very same person he's been wanting to just kiss for weeks and this - this is even better, much better. The sort of good stuff dreams are made of - literally. 

"If you ever try to sabotage me into anything else, I'm going to bloody piss in your morning tea."

The little content laugh Louis lets out is a decent answer by itself, really. The quiet "deal," he whispers into Harry's naked shoulder, warm and still a bit damp, just seals it. Doesn't mean Harry won't start playing him back, though.

 


End file.
